Let us appreciate the grace and uncommon decency of Henry Aaron

Let us appreciate the grace and uncommon
decency of Henry Aaron
Howard BryantESPN Senior Writer   print

When I first reached out to Henry Aaron o tell him I was interested in writing a book about his life, he did
not want to talk to me. He was convinced the public had no interest in him, except to have him serve as their
proxy to criticize Barry Bonds as Bonds neared his all-time home run record. Henry's titanic statistical
achievements cemented, he was tired of the constant misinterpretation of his worldview. The journalistic
response to his critique of race relations had turned him inward. In print, he saw himself portrayed as bitter,
always bitter, when in fact he was merely telling the story of his life -- answering the questions he was
asked. When we first spoke, he was resigned to the idea that people did not want to really know him.
Instead, they wanted him to reflect a sense of their own better selves. His perspective of his greatest moment
-- breaking Babe Ruth's all-time home run record -- was somehow less important than theirs, and his view
that the greatest moment of his career finally ended the worst period of his athletic life complicated their
enjoyment that the night of April 8, 1974, brought them. The public reduced the effects of his own journey
to him simply being bitter without cause.
I asked him whether he wanted to be known. "Yes, I do," he told me. "But whenever I say something, the
writers get it wrong. Then they try to correct it, and then I have to correct the correction, and finally I just
decided it wasn't worth it. Don't say anything. Keep to myself. If you don't say anything, they can't get it
wrong."

'The Last Hero'

As Howard Bryant writes in his book on Henry Aaron, nobody who ever really knew Henry Aaron called him Hank. Photo courtesy
Pantheon Books.

Henry's critique was central to his life, and the critique was a simultaneously gentle yet ferocious
indictment. Over the course of his 86 years, America asked him to do everything right. It asked him to pull
himself up by his bootstraps: Henry's father had built the family house with saved money and leftover planks
of wood and nails he scavenged from vacant lots around the Toulminville section of Mobile, while he had
taught himself to play baseball. America asked him to put in the hours and the hard work and to not
complain: Henry played 23 seasons and never once went on the then-disabled list after his rookie season
ended three weeks early because of a broken ankle. No special favors. No handouts. America asked him to
believe in meritocracy, the meritocracy of the record books and the scoreboard.

America asked him to do all of the things, and when he did them, he found himself at the top of his nation's
    greatest sporting profession through the merit of statistics. In return, the FBI told him his daughter was the
    target of a kidnapping plot. For nearly three years he required a police escort and an FBI detail for himself
    and his family. He finished the 1973 season with 713 home runs -- one shy of tying Ruth's record -- and
    believed he would be assassinated in the offseason. He had received enough letters to convince him so. He
    received death threats from 1972 to 1974 -- all for doing what America asked of him.

    He was unconvinced a writer would take him seriously, because over his lifetime precious few had. As he
    seemed to warm to the idea -- or at least not view it hostilely -- he asked me a question I would never forget:
    "How many pages will it be?" It seemed so odd -- yet the question was self-explanatory and my response
    would telegraph to him how seriously I took the project. Biographies of towering figures in the classically
    grand tradition are thick. They are doorstops. They are meaty paperweights that sit on the bookshelves
    whose girth scream importance -- even if 95% of the population never finishes them, even if I was thinking,
    "Mr. Aaron, the only thing worse than writing a lousy book is writing a really long, lousy book." To him,
    big people got big books, and because he did not yet have one, he did not think people cared. Henry wanted
    to make sure I was willing to put in the work to understand a life.
    He possessed an uncommon decency, a quality in short supply today. His decency convinced him no one
    was interested in him, not because he did not believe his life was important, but because he was not an anti-
    hero whose deep flaws, scandal and misdeeds made him more marketable. He was just a solid person. No
    jail. No arrests. No substance abuse, falls from grace, or mistresses.

    Henry understood at once his place in the world and how his talent had created a different lane for him. The
    people who once dismissed him, and his people, made exceptions for him because he was The Hank Aaron.
    He was rightfully distrusting of them. He watched the change in how America viewed him as his talent kept
    proving its cultural racism wrong. And instead of his constant defeat of its presuppositions, the culture did
    not change, but in its eyes, he did. Henry became dignified.

    In the African American story, dignity is such a sly and deceptive word, simultaneously complimentary and
    condescending, and dignity was attached to Henry like a surname. Its affixation to him, of course, said more
    about his world than it ever did about him. For what was called dignity was simply an acceptable response to
    hostility, and it was easier for writers and broadcasters, fans and executives to concentrate on his response to
    hostility than the hostility itself. It is a common expectation of African Americans that they be more
    conciliatory and not vengeful, invested and not apathetic, constantly brave and aspiring and dignified in the
    hostile territory of indignity. When he smiled at the hostility, he was dignified. When he did not, he was
    bitter. Dignity has always felt like code for treating white incivility as inevitable behavior, of not ever
    punching the punchers.

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    His life seemed to mimic his career, a long, triumphant marathon where in the end his values proved sturdier
    than the temporary sensations of the moment. And through all the years -- like hitting 20 home runs for 20
    straight years -- he was still there.

    There was a hidden fear I felt for my own family that I also felt for him: the worry that Black people in their
    80s and 90s would die before the 2020 election, and during the last part of their lives they would bear
    witness to both the elation of an African American president and a hostile response so severe it was
    reminiscent of the previous backlashes to Black success. I was with Henry at his house in Atlanta on Oct. 1,
    2008. After we had finished talking, he and his wife, Billye, were heading to the polls to vote early for
    Barack Obama, the act of doing so its own statement. Her first husband was the late civil rights activist and
    Morehouse College professor Dr. Samuel Woodrow Williams, and before his death in 1970, Billye had long
    been part of the Atlanta civil rights movement. The Braves moved to Atlanta after the 1965 season, and
    Henry met with Andrew Young, Ralph Abernathy and Martin Luther King, Jr., and told them he did not
    believe he was sufficiently doing his part in the movement. King and Young assured him that as a Black pro
    sports star in the South, his role was significant. To cast a presidential ballot for a Black man 42 years later
    was for them a major emotional event.

    When Henry and I last saw each other, in Atlanta in early 2018, this -- along with tennis ("Do you think
    Serena will get another one?" he asked) and the NFL playoffs -- is what we talked about. And he reminded
    me of his father working at the Mobile shipyard during World War II, when white workers rioted because
    African Americans were being hired, taking what they believed was theirs and theirs only. Henry was
    dignified, but he never forgot what was done to his people and by whom.

    He never mentioned not surviving the vicious presidency of the past four years, but I worried about it for
    him, as I did for all the Black people of his generation for whom the vote was something some had literally
    died for -- a vote that today was being strategically suppressed and delegitimized. When I wished him a
    Happy New Year a few weeks ago, he was grateful for surviving, and excited for Georgia. What he saw in
    the country reminded him of where it had been, of how deeply the past had wounded him, and he feared
    seeing the past in the future. We talked about losing Joe Morgan and Jimmy Wynn, Tom Seaver and Whitey
    Ford and Bob Gibson and Lou Brock and Al Kaline with pain and absolutely no hints that day that he and I
    would never speak again.

    Before we hung up the phone, he said what he always said, "Call, any time. I love when we talk," and I said
    I would, but I also knew the truth: I never called him nearly enough because he was the great man, Henry
    Aaron, and one does not respect an invitation by overstaying one's welcome. Now, that time cannot be
    recovered.

    When he was behind Ruth, he was ahead of America. When he passed Ruth, America still had not caught up
    to him -- and now, respected as royalty, I asked him if there was ever a quiet moment when he could sit back
    with an umbrella in his drink and revel in triumph, that he indeed had made it. He said yes so many times,
    delighted in the happiness he had not felt in 1974, making bitterness the inappropriate adjective it always
    had been. He challenged baseball and had reconciled with it. He was an unquestioned immortal, no longer
    slighted. Jeff Idelson, former president of the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum, saw to that, as
    did his friend and former baseball commissioner, Bud Selig, who made it clear to all underlings at MLB that

Henry was a made man, not to be harassed. President George W. Bush awarded him the Presidential Medal
    of Freedom.

    In 2009, Henry, his wife, Billye, and I were sitting in a conference room at the Hall of Fame in
    Cooperstown. I was trying to comprehend the historical arc of Henry Aaron, and told him he represented so
    much of the Black American aspirational journey. I said to him, "You went from your mother hiding you
    under the bed when the Klan marched down your street as a toddler to sleeping in the White House as the
    invited guests of the president."

    "No, no, no, Mr. Bryant," Billye Aaron interrupted me with a proud smile. "We didn't sleep at the White
    House. We slept at the White House twice."

    Hank Aaron was one of the five best MLB
    players ever: Here's why he was even better
    than his 755 home runs
    pl

    On April 8, 1974, Hank Aaron surpassed Babe Ruth as the all-time home run leader with his 715th homer. (0:34)

    Jan 23, 2021



    David SchoenfieldESPN Senior Writer   print

    So much of Henry Aaron's baseball legacy is attached to three numbers -- 715, 755 and whatever Barry
    Bonds' career home run total ended up at -- that we too often overlook his all-around brilliance on the field.
    Put it this way: If you turned his 755 home runs into outs, he still finished with more than 3,000 hits. Or
    another way: He played 23 major league seasons and was a 25-time All-Star (there were multiple All-Star
    Games early in Aaron's career).

    Even though he is widely regarded as one of the top five players in MLB history, Aaron has remained
    underrated among the all-time greats. He played most of his career in the shadow of Willie Mays, his
    contemporary who was the more visually breathtaking player thanks to Mays' defense in center field. Many
    still consider Babe Ruth the greatest right fielder. So Aaron ranks merely as the second-best player of his
    generation and the second-best right fielder of all time.

    When experts and fans talk about the best hitters in the game's history, they usually talk about Ruth and Ted
    Williams and Bonds, or even singles hitters such as Tony Gwynn, before Aaron's name comes up. No
    player, however, played with such sustained, consistent excellence for so long as Aaron.

    Showing up every day isn't glamorous, but it's one way you topple Ruth and hit 755 home runs. As a rookie
    with the Milwaukee Braves in 1954, Henry Aaron fractured his ankle in early September, ending his season
    at 122 games. Maybe he wasn't quite Cal Ripken as an Ironman, but Aaron didn't miss many more games
    after that. From 1955 to 1968, he played 2,157 out of a possible 2,214 games, missing an average of just 4.1
    games per season. In 1969 and 1970, then 35 and 36 years old, he fell all the way down to 147 and 150
    games.

Along the way, he never had even a single bad season. His only MVP award came in 1957, but Aaron
finished in the top 10 of the MVP voting 13 times during an era in which the National League was packed
with future Hall of Famers vying for the award and finished in the top three in three different decades.
Here's one way to look at his high level of play for nearly two decades:

Most 6-WAR seasons
Aaron 16
Bonds 16
Mays 15
Ruth 14
Tris Speaker 14

Most 7-WAR seasons
Bonds 14
Aaron 13
Mays 13
Ruth 12
Lou Gehrig 11

Mays is right up there with Aaron, but even Mays faded in his late 30s. Mays' last 30-homer season came at
age 35 in 1966. From age 36 on, he hit 118 home runs. Aaron hit a career-high 47 home runs at age 37, and
from age 36 on he hit 201 home runs.

That's another testament to Aaron's consistency. Forty-seven other players have hit at least 47 home runs in
a season -- 15 of them more than once -- but Aaron is still second all-time in home runs. Since he finished
his career in 1976, four players have hit more home runs through age 30 than Aaron. None of them could
keep it going in their 30s:

Up to age 30
Alex Rodriguez: 464 HR, 85.0 WAR
Ken Griffey Jr.: 438 HR, 76.2 WAR
Albert Pujols: 408 HR, 81.4 WAR
Andruw Jones: 368 HR, 61.0 WAR
Henry Aaron: 366 HR, 80.7 WAR

After age 30
Rodriguez: 232 HR, 32.5 WAR
Griffey: 192 HR, 7.6 WAR
Pujols: 254 HR, 19.4 WAR
Jones: 66 HR, 1.7 WAR
Aaron: 389 HR, 62.4 WAR

In 1955, in his second season in the majors, at just 21 years old, Aaron hit .314 with 27 homers, 105 runs
and 106 RBIs, his first great season. In 1973, at 39 years old, he hit .301 with 40 home runs -- in just 120
games. But Aaron wasn't just a slugger. He finished with a .305 career average, hitting .300 14 times, even
though many of his peak seasons came in the 1960s, in the most difficult hitting conditions since the dead-
ball era. In an interview with MLB Network just last month, Aaron said the thing he was most proud of was
that "I didn't strike out."

Indeed, he never struck out 100 times in a season and finished with more walks than strikeouts. Keep in
mind that Ruth, playing in an era with far fewer strikeouts than even Aaron's era, led his league five times in
strikeouts. Ruth fanned in 12.5% of his plate appearances, Aaron in just 9.9% of his. Maybe that's why
Aaron was such a good clutch hitter and RBI guy. He hit .324 in his career with runners in scoring position,
and in "late and close" situations when the game is most on the line, he hit .318/.407/.576 -- better than his
overall line of .305/.374/.555.

Bonds might have passed Aaron on the home run list, but Aaron is still the all-time leader in RBIs and total
bases. Using the unofficial list at Baseball-Reference.com (RBIs are considered official only since 1920),
Aaron's 2,297 outpace Ruth's 2,214. Pujols stands at 2,100, but 2021 will likely be his last season.

Years ago, Aaron stepped into the ESPN Sunday Night Baseball booth. At one point, there was a runner on
second base with no outs. Joe Morgan asked Aaron how often he tried to move the runner along to third --
expecting, perhaps, Aaron to say he played the game the "right way" and hit the ball to the right side. Aaron
let out a big, hearty laugh. "Never," he said. "I always tried to knock the guy in."

The total bases record might be even more unbreakable. Aaron has 6,856 -- well ahead of Stan Musial's
6,134. If another player came along and replicated Musial's numbers, he would still need to hit 181 home
runs to break Aaron's record.

Aaron wasn't just a dominant hitter, but also an outstanding fielder and baserunner. He won three Gold
Gloves, and while fielding metrics from his era are informed estimates, Baseball-Reference rates him ninth
among right fielders in runs saved at plus-98 for his career. He stole 240 bases with an excellent success
rate, and when he hit 44 home runs and stole 31 bases in 1963, he became just the third player to go 30-30 in
the same season (after Ken Williams and Mays). Joe Torre, his longtime teammate with the Braves, said he
never saw Aaron make a mistake on the field. To top it off, while he appeared in just three postseasons (the
1957 and 1958 World Series and 1969 National League Championship Series), he hit .362/.405/.710 with
six home runs in 17 games.

He's fifth all-time among position players in career WAR:

Bonds: 162.8
Ruth: 162.1
Mays: 156.2
Ty Cobb: 151.0
Aaron: 143.1

You can add Ted Williams to the conversation (121.9 WAR despite missing several prime years due to
World War II and the Korean War) -- although Williams wasn't the fielder or baserunner that Bonds, Mays
and Aaron were. So, yeah, top five is accurate, probably ahead of Cobb once you make a timeline
adjustment, and you can judge what you want to do with Bonds.

What about playing at the same time as Mays? OK. Sure. Mays' greatness did seem to make Aaron a little
underappreciated, even back in their playing days. Not everyone from that time necessarily agreed, however.
Here's a quote from Hall of Fame third baseman Pie Traynor in 1964: "I'll take Hank Aaron any day over
Mays. Give me a guy who'll go out there and play every game, never get tired, doesn't complain and won't
faint on you. ... You don't hear much about Hank, yet he's just as good a fielder, runner and a steadier and
better hitter."